Cobra Que Fuma Não Ladra
Héctor Arnau

That voice you long for, sinuous. That mirror where you see yourself, shattered, scattered across the floor. That truth you choose, here painted with golden filigree, subjugating you. Then yes, cry out your desire, splitting yourself from within, a pipe too often used. Then yes, reflected in all those skins crawling in the seismic heat, tasting with their tongues. Come closer — here, at the base of the back, black fire of the cave, a hand that knows and descends; caress, caress my scales, only to taste, to heal us, to swallow the underside of the world.

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